


And all I got was this lousy t-shirt

by Minici



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Future Fic, Getting Together, Multi, Neal being ridiculous, Plot snuck in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minici/pseuds/Minici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's sentence ends in three weeks. They're trying not to think about it. </p><p>“Honestly, I think it’s more rhinestone than bag.”<br/>“And you thought I gave it to you?”<br/>“I didn’t know what to think."<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	And all I got was this lousy t-shirt

**Author's Note:**

> This story is apparently set sometime before season five because I don't know why. Peter has his old job, Neal is actually going to be let off anklet when he should be, El's still in New York. 
> 
> Alternately titled "From New York with love," alternately titled "so I gave up and wrote the fic"
> 
> (I finished the plotbunny before the actual story. Who's surprised, show of hands. No one? Okay.)

Peter flicks through another of Ringley’s transactions. Nothing suspicious. Nothing to suggest he’s buying himself a way to transport 2000 blood diamonds out of the country within the next week.

“What would you do, if you were stuck with cargo that had a lot of heat, and needed to get out fast?” Peter says.

“Probably call you,” Neal says, absently, gaze fixed on the 34th file he’s gone through that day.

Peter snorts. “If you didn’t want to get caught.”

“Nothing this guy’s doing. It’s almost like he doesn’t care if he catches our attention, and he doesn’t seem to have any sort of financial fallback plan.”

Neal leans back in his chair, stretching extravagantly. His vest pulls tight across his chest, distinctive against the white shirt underneath, and Peter looks away. The kid’s like a cat sometimes.

“But you do, right? You’ve got plans for what you’re going to do?” Peter says, before he has time to check himself. Neal just looks amused.

“Yeah Peter, I’ve got plans,” he says. Peter opens his mouth. “Plans that don’t involve robbing anything. Geez.”

Neal seems genuine, which is a relief. Peter relaxes back into the strip of late-afternoon sun heating up the conference room.

“In my defense, I was at least 80% sure that wasn’t what you were up to,” Peter says, because Neal hasn’t breathed a word of what he’s going to do when he gets off his anklet in less than three weeks. He taps his finger on a sheaf of bank statements.

“80%, huh?” Neal says.

“It’s pretty generous. You’ve made some interesting decisions in the past.”

Neal slowly tilts his head in acknowledgment, picking up the file on Ringley again, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

“Besides, I saw the travel plans. Europe.”

Neal looks back at him, surprised.

“You used the work computers to print the tickets. Just. Send a postcard? Every now and then. So we know you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

“Peter, I’m not-” Neal says, putting down the folder.

“Not going to do anything stupid, I know. I believe you.” As completely as Peter can, given his occupation. “And I get why you need to leave. Four years. You’ve probably memorized every piece of art and culture within a two-mile radius.” And before that, prison. Who wouldn’t want a new start? Or so El had convinced him.  _It's his choice,_ she'd said. 

Until Peter had seen the tickets, he’d been hoping he could convince Neal to stay, though his plan had pretty much just consisted of bribing him with wine and El’s cooking. Maybe he’ll try that anyway. Peter’s not good at standing by. ~~~~

“Good. But- you think I’m going to send you postcards,” Neal says. He almost sounds offended, or maybe amused. The two often go together, with Neal.

“Every now and then,” Peter says, chin raised, in the take-it-or-leave-it voice he uses to offer people deals. Neal’s going to give them this, at least.

“More than a postcard, promise,” Neal says, eyes narrowed.

“Okay. Keep the souvenirs tastefully off the Interpol watch list and we’ve got a deal,” Peter says.

Neal pauses. He picks up a pen and starts flipping it through his fingers. “Sure. I’ll send you one from all my favorite places.”

“And nothing expensive.”

Neal rolls his eyes and goes back to reading his file, but Peter doesn’t quite trust the mischievous look that keeps flickering his way, as the file stack gets taller and the strip of afternoon sunlight travels across the room. He doesn’t really mind, either. Europe’s a long ways away.

 

The first package arrives sometime before 8 AM on a Tuesday. Peter almost trips on a small brown box coming out the door, exhausted from a late night with case files. He picks it up so El won’t do the same, puts it in the seat beside him on autopilot, and forgets about it entirely until he gets to Neal’s place.

“Hey, what’s this?” Neal says, plucking the box up and shaking it lightly.

“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t do that,” Peter says, finally thinking of at least five reasons why he shouldn’t have picked it up in the first place, all starting with the letter B.

“‘To El and Peter,’” Neal reads. “I’m sure it’s fine. It’s too light to be something that explodes.”

He’s already picking at the twine wrapped around it. Peter takes the box out of his hands, places it in the center console, turns the key in the ignition, and pulls out into traffic.

“It could be a cupcake. Or an orange. Maybe a slinky,” Neal says five seconds later, turning the box over in his hands again. 

There are approximately 600 small objects that the box could be, according to Neal Caffrey. 

“Fine, give me that,” Peter says at the next red light. Neal hands it over immediately, and Peter slips his fingers under rough twine, pulling it off. The box isn't even proper cardboard, flimsy and smooth. The stuff they use in gift shops, he realizes, as he pulls out an “I <3 New York” mug, white with big block letters and a cheesy red heart. He’s seen hundreds of them every day, walking past street vendors. Not once has he been struck with an urge to own one. Apparently someone thought he should. Peter stares.

“Huh,” Neal says, sounding amused.

Peter looks for something else- a note, maybe, but there’s nothing. Someone honks behind him. Peter puts the mug in the cup holder and accelerates.

“But this is perfect, Peter!” Neal says, clinging dramatically to his door handle. “You can keep this one in the car. That way, we won’t die in a mangled mess on the way to work because you’re in a grouchy caffeine-free haze.”

“My car, my rules,” Peter mutters.

He sticks the mug in his office drawer when he gets in, and forgets about it. He’s got more important things to do, like picking Neal’s brain on the Ringley case. His gut tells him they’re missing something, which is bad because they need to get this closed fast. Neal’s only got two weeks left, and they need him for the undercover work.

 

On Friday, Elizabeth calls from her work phone. Peter juggles the files he’s got into one hand and puts his cellphone to his ear.

“Hey, Hon,” he says, low. He’s been thinking of her all morning.

“Hey, Hon,” she says. “Did you send me a- tote bag?”

“No?” Peter says, dodging around a probie.   

“Someone left it for me at the front desk. It has rhinestones. Lots of them. Honestly, I think it’s more rhinestone than bag.”

“And you thought I gave it to you?”

“I didn’t know what to think, actually, but I did mention my old one broke the other day, when you dropped by during that case of yours.”

Neal had had the idea to use a gold-leaf party invitation to get a fingerprint, since their suspect, a minor boss in Ringley’s operation, was paranoid about wiping down the usual surfaces.

“So, that’s good, you’ve got something to tide you over,” Peter says, maneuvering his office door open with his elbow.

“Yeah. I guess so,” El says, sounding less than thrilled. “Just to hold my papers in the building, though, I wouldn’t want to expose random passerby to this. A bedazzled Manhattan skyline. Where do people even find this stuff?”

“Hang on,” Peter says, putting the files down on his desk. “Does it say ‘I heart New York’ anywhere on it?”

“Probably. Yeah, on the side, stenciled. Why do you ask?”

“There was a mug outside our house the other day, same thing written on it.”

“That’s… odd,” El says, as Peter opens his desk drawer and pulls it out. Plain, ordinary white mug, except for the lettering. Cheap-looking. “It doesn’t have rhinestones too, does it?”

“Nope. Just your typical tourist gift.”

“I don’t think this is how tourism usually works.”

“I’ll pull the security tapes for your place, see if we can ID the guy who left your bag.”

“Don’t bother, you’re busy with that Ringley guy. It’s weird, but it’s not exactly life-threatening. Actually, if I turn it inside out… there. Life-saving. Nice, normal black bag for today.”

“Okay. Just.” Peter can’t, for the life of him, think of an appropriate warning for this situation. Be careful? Of what? “You should bring it in with you, come visit me for lunch. We can get it tested by the people at evidence, you can get some of those roast chicken sandwiches you love at Panelli’s.”

“Good plan. I’ll be by once I’m done with this client,” El says. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Peter says. He taps his finger on the mug. Holds the ceramic up to the light and squints.

“Everything okay?” Neal says, leaning in the doorway, apparently watching as Peter waves cups around.  

“Yeah, what’d you find on Ringley’s niece?” he says, putting the mug back on his desk. Neal casts it a curious glance, but answers.

Of course, the whole story comes out anyways when Peter invites him to lunch with him and El, and Neal trails Peter to the evidence lab.

“Both normal,” the tech says, handing over the mug and bag. She bites into one of the roast chicken sandwiches Peter handed her in exchange and makes a delighted noise. “Enjoy.”

“It’s horrendous,” Neal says cheerfully, poking at the rhinestones that make up the New York Times building. Peter yanks it out of his reach.

“Oh, definitely, but it’s all I’ve got for the moment,” El says, crossing the room, sheaves of paper in her hands. Peter hands the bag back over, reluctantly.

“Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out,” she says to him, dumping the papers in, and then, “Nice to see you, Neal.”

Neal tips his hat to her as she goes, with one of his winning smiles. Peter rolls his eyes, fondness spreading through him like a plague.

“So, the surprise going away party she’s planning for me- what kind of wine will there be?”

Peter huffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I just need to know if you picked it out.”

“Why?” he says, jabbing the button for the elevator.

“No reason,” Neal says, and Peter scowls at him. “Just thought I should remind you, I do have a perfectly good cabinet of wine without screw-tops at my place.”

 

The third package arrives at work two days later, addressed again, “To El and Peter.”

“Maybe it’s a really weird advertising campaign,” Neal says, nibbling on the corner of one of the fortune cookies that were inside. “Hey, not bad.” He cracks it open and pops one of the cookie slivers in his mouth. His hair’s askew, a little off its usual wave from where he ran his fingers through it once, before he caught himself. Peter looks away.

“Taste of New York” is printed in red ink on a little plastic bag surrounding each cookie. Since they arrived via office mail, they’ve already been scanned. No prints, no surprises, just souvenir treats.

“Come on, Peter, see what your fortune is.”

“You are having way too much fun with this,” Peter says, but takes the one handed to him and cracks it open out of habit. They’ve played this game before, during stakeouts and late-night Chinese. “‘Did you know the Met holds more than 3 million pieces of art?’” he reads, in the curling blue font on the little slip of paper.

“Yep,” Neal says.

“Is this a warning?” Peter says, without much hope.

“Mine just says, ‘The Empire State building is the tallest in New York!’ So probably no. But it could be an elaborate plot. We should check all of them to be sure.”

“Oh, cookies,” says one of the taskforce agents, assigned to running down every lead they can find on Ringley before he sells. Peter considers declaring them as evidence, but he and Neal have pretty obviously already eaten two. He slips one in his pocket, though.

Later, he traces the cookies to one particular shop, not far from the FBI building. The sender could have picked them up on the way. He gives in and pulls the footage from El’s office too, but doesn’t see anyone drop the box off. It’s just there at the end of the day, when the secretary picks it up and puts it in El’s mail slot.

After dinner that night, El pulls the dishtowel off a cooled-down cake she made earlier. Peter’s mouth waters- the house has smelled like a bakery all night. She hands him a knife, and he tells her about the latest package to distract them both as he helps slather on the base layer in midnight-blue cream frosting. When he’s finished, he pulls back, wraps his arms around El’s waist, and watches as she pipes white around the edges. Finally, she squeezes out “Congratulations!” in big, loopy gold frosting on the top. A plastic version of the FBI logo takes the place of the dot on the i.

“Perfect,” she says, and Peter nods, tightening his arms around her.

“He made it four years,” he murmurs, eyes caught on the FBI decal. Tomorrow, everything willing, they’ll take down Ringley. Two days later, Neal’s off to Europe. And Peter thought catching him was hard. 

“Oh, Hon,” El says, turning in his arms and pulling him close. “We should talk again. I’ll get the hot cocoa.”

Peter sighs, he doesn’t have the time, but pulls out two thick, tall mugs from the cupboard because some things you make time for. She mixes the powder with chocolate shavings and marshmallows, and he heats the milk. El leads the way to the porch. Peter sits with his feet on the front step, breathes in the cool fall air, and takes a sip of his cocoa.

It’s certainly one of the odder traditions that’s evolved in their marriage, porch talks about Neal Caffrey. The cocoa’s a sort of shorthand for comfort and family, cemented by the age of five in Peter’s hindbrain. El did add a slug of Irish courage the first time, but alcohol leads to less talking and more inspired, reaffirming sex, and they don’t exactly need the alcohol for that. Besides, the warm mug feels good and wholesome against the chill in the air, and the pictures he’s seen at work, of what Ringley’s willing to do to cover up his operation. Beside him, El frowns up at the sky, fingers curled tightly around her own green-striped mug. Eventually, Peter speaks.

“It’s hard, but it’s also the best thing I’ve ever seen, watching him get ready to leave. Today’s probably the first time I’ve had all his paperwork. He even had Hughes sign off on things, instead of just forging his signature.”

“He looks happy,” El says, leaning into him, tucking her feet up beside her.

“Happiest I’ve ever seen him,” Peter says, a bit wistfully. “He started whistling the other day. While he was finishing that paperwork, no less. I thought Jones was going to toss that hat of his out the window.”

El smiles, twisting the mug in her hands, fingers slipping on the glazed surface. She blinks. And blinks again.

“I’m going to miss having him around for dinner,” she says, rubbing at her eyes. Peter pulls her into his arms, reassured by her weight against his chest. 

Neither of them are saying it, but Peter knows they're both thinking of all those times in the last year that it seemed like dinner was heading somewhere else, the hope that maybe, once the power imbalance wasn’t an issue…

“We’re not crazy, we haven’t been imagining…?”

“The sexual tension? No, hon. No,” she says, with a laugh.

“Couldn’t help hoping he’d choose us,” Peter says, resting his chin on her shoulder. Hope. It’s why he was against discussing the specifics of a hypothetical situation in the first place, after he got past the abject denial stage. If it probably wasn’t going to happen, why think about it? But El had pointed out that it definitely wasn't going to happen unless they discussed it.

And it wasn’t like it was hard to imagine, once they started. The three of them already went out together to museums and El’s events. They had dinners at their place and the occasional one at June’s. Peter’s not good at letting go. He keeps thinking of the spaces Neal will leave behind.

“He looks so happy,” El says again, firm, and Peter nods.  

“He does.”

They tumble into bed not long after. El’s got the party to plan on top of the events for all her clients, and Peter’s got a sting tomorrow. They whisper reassurances into each other's ears, and build, and build, around those spaces. 

 

“I’ve been authorized to add $10,000 to ease your mind,” Neal says, voice steady, but it’s the code phrase.

“That’s it, go!” Peter says, dropping his headset and piling out of the van behind Jones and Diana. Agents are moving in on all sides. Peter and his team take the north staircase. Neal’s on the 7th floor for the meeting with Ringley, the first change of plans that had made Peter nervous. They’d had equipment set up around the second.

They’re almost to the 5th floor, legs burning, when a gunshot rings out. Peter takes the rest of them two at a time, and crashes through the grey metal door at the top, his own gun out and in the ready position.

“FBI! Nobody move!” he says, and has to immediately duck back through the door when more shots ring out, pinging off the metal. He crouches, lets the door close most of the way, and watches through the crack. There are three shooters. Neal and Ringley are nowhere in sight.

Jones and Diana reach his position, and Peter holds up three fingers. He puts one down. Two down.

Peter kicks the door open. Jones and Diana lay down cover fire and he rushes through, ducking behind a pillar. The sound of gunshots is even louder in the room, echoing off the walls. Peter leans out around the rough cement and fires. One of the shooters goes down, hand clutching his leg.

Jones makes a run for another pillar, crouched low. Another shooter, stockier than the others, stands to get a better angle. Diana puts a round through his shoulder, but he keeps firing. Still, he’s thrown off target, and Jones makes it.

Another team of agents bursts through the door on the other side, and in the ensuing chaos it’s easy to surround the rest of the shooters. Agents move in, handcuffs ready, as Peter lowers his gun to the resting position, pacing forward across the floor.

“Neal!” he says, scanning the room. Just like him to disappear at the worst time. He picks out a pillar in the corner, chipped worse than the others. Bullet holes? He makes for it.

“No, you’re going to be fine,” he hears. Neal.

Someone lets out a pained chuckle. Peter rounds the pillar and sees Ringley laid out on the floor, blood spreading from a bullet hole in his chest. Neal’s putting pressure on the wound, hands slippery red. He looks up sharply when he hears footsteps. Ringley whispers something.

“Peter, medical,” Neal says, and Peter calls for EMS. They’re there within thirty seconds, slipping an oxygen mask on Ringley and nudging Neal out of the way. He goes to stand by Peter, grimacing at his hands.

“Here,” Peter says, grabbing a paint cloth abandoned near the wall. Neal takes it without a word. He doesn’t say anything while he wipes the worst of it off his hands, and Peter takes him in.

He doesn’t seem to have a scratch, just looks shaky and pale. Peter’s chest expands. He feels like the luckiest guy on the planet, watching Neal take deep breaths, and for a moment, he doesn’t care if Neal moves to the moon so long as he’s out there somewhere, safe.

He’s not okay right now though. The blood’s sticking under his nails, and in the grooves of his palm. Peter waves one of the EMS workers over. “Can we have one of your water bottles?”

He cracks the cap and holds it out to Neal, who immediately takes it, turns away, and starts pouring water over his hands. Peter waits, at his shoulder. 

Neal takes a breath once his hands are clean, even takes a sip of the water that’s left. Then he fixes his gaze off into the distance, and speaks in a low, even tone.

“Ringley isn’t the one in charge, it’s his little brother, Ben. That snitch of ours? Ben thought it was Ringley. He got nervous and told his men to take him out, and whoever he was meeting with. Lucky me, one of them was into dramatics, really hated Ringley and jumped the gun. Drew early, let me get the warning out to you guys. I stirred up the waters about who the traitor was to stall. They were waiting for confirmation from Ben to go ahead with the shooting, when the first guy got impatient again.” Neal pauses and slouches against the concrete wall. “They started arguing, gave me time to pull us to shelter and wait it out.”

“Good work,” Peter says, putting a hand on Neal’s shoulder, and shaking him, just a little. Neal meets his gaze and lets out a wan smile. They stay to give their statements. Neal’s unusually quiet in the car afterwards, and doesn’t seem surprised when they get the news that Ringley flatlined in the ambulance. Peter buys him hot cocoa on the way back to the office, with whipped cream, and Neal gives him a funny look, but drinks all of it.

“It’s okay, Neal. We’ll get him,” Peter says, then pauses, because that’s wrong, there’s probably not going to be any “We” about it, but he can’t bring himself to correct it.

Neal just nods.

When they get back, there’s another box waiting on Peter’s desk. He makes a show of opening it for Neal, prodding the box and grumbling about mystery tourists and people with nothing better to do than suffer FBI agents with tacky trinkets. Then he pulls out a gray bottle of “Canned NYC Air!” and just stares, forgetting everything else. He takes a deep, confused breath of New York office air, and Neal actually smiles, wryly, at him.

“I feel like I should be able to arrest them for fraud,” Peter says, looking up from the canister. “But I’m sure it’s all perfectly legal.”

“Oh, look, there’s one for El too,” Neal says, reaching into the box and pulling out another little canister with big stenciled letters. “Don’t knock them, Peter, one of these got us out of a tight spot, remember?”

“That was an FBI-issued breather, and airless comic book rooms aren’t exactly a common health hazard.”

“And yet,” Neal says, gesturing between him and Peter.

“Some interesting times, over these years,” Peter says, and wants to take the words back immediately. By some sort of unspoken agreement, they haven’t been talking about the end of Neal’s sentence outside of paperwork since that first failed conversation. _Stop digging,_ Peter tells himself.

“Yeah,” Neal says. “I had no idea what I was getting into.”

 

Peter understands why Neal smiled when Peter watches Elizabeth re-open the latest box.

“New York City air?” she says, head jutted forward to peer more closely at the tube and its fine print. “Who wants New York City air?”

Her face wiggles through a complicated range of emotions. He can see the moment that she questions her job, if she could just be making money selling empty canisters. Peter laughs, and she lowers the tube back onto the table, smiling ruefully.

“You still haven’t figured out who’s sending us this stuff?”

“No, we’ve been kind of busy,” Peter says, softly, and she looks up immediately in concern. He shakes his head. “It’ll be fine. We’re all just a bit shaken up.”

“You know what that means?” El says, eyes darting across his face, reading him like a well-thumbed book.

“I know that _you_ know what that means,” he says.

“It means two cakes and a lame party game. People are going to need them.”

“You’re the expert,” he says, and kisses her, because he’s been dying to all day.

He spends the next day building up their new case against Ben. Neal stays with him, late into the night, lining up Ringley’s confession with the shooters’ and realigning the evidence so that the pattern they’d missed before, pointing to the brother, would be obvious to the jury. Dropping Neal off alone afterwards goes against every instinct Peter’s got, but Neal just shakes his head when Peter mentions late-night pasta at their place.

“I’m tired, Peter.”

When they reach June’s, he doesn’t give Peter time to say anything, just slips out into the night and climbs the steps. Peter can't bring himself to pull away until he hears the door shut, idling in the street.

 

The last day of Neal’s sentence dawns, and Peter helps El spike the punch double too for good measure before he leaves for work. It’s sunny and nice, and when they knock down Ben Ringley’s door and bring him in, Ben squints at the sun like he’s hungover, and doesn’t put up much fight. Neal looks satisfied anyways, and the ride back to the office is lighter. Neal’s spinning his hat on his finger, shooting raised eyebrows at Peter’s speedometer every time he accelerates after a traffic light. Peter grumbles at him and Neal laughs, and it’s so right that Peter can’t imagine anything else.

By Neal’s second coffee, he’s practically giddy, after-incident paperwork forgotten, and Peter watches him swing himself up onto the conference table as he tells Jones about the time his “friend” pole-vaulted across some rooftops because someone’s little sister had put Aladdin on and someone else had questioned the logistics. Their team eats lunch in the conference room, mixing the occasional remember-when conversation with details about the party to come.

After lunch, Neal wanders, closing down several betting pools they both pretend Peter doesn't know about. Peter narrows his eyes at him and his bulging pockets. Neal tries to look innocent, but mostly just looks edible, per usual. Luckily for him, El calls.

“Another mystery package, want me to open it?” she says.

“Hold on.” He puts her on speaker and points at Neal, gesturing him into his office, because Neal seems to be enjoying the mystery as much as Peter, and because Peter he can’t resist the “pleasant” look on his face when he thinks Peter might actually be calling him in for the betting pool. “We’re just finishing up in my office, Neal’s here too. Go on.”

“Okay,” El says, her voice echoing off the glass walls of the office. He can hear scissors slicing open the tape, and the crinkle of packing paper.

“Oh,” she says. Peter hears something clink.

“What is it this time? The statue of liberty made out of tassels? Another imprint of Manhattan?”

“Here, I’ll take a picture,” she says. Peter’s phone chimes and he swipes open the message. Three gleaming metal keychains, each with a metal disc hanging down. The one on the left says “Peter” in solid script, an intricate pattern etched around his name, and has a charm, a dangling mini catcher’s mitt with a Yankees emblem. The one on the right says El, with the same style, and a charm for an off-Broadway show she’d talked about for days. The one in the middle is engraved with “I <3 New York” like the first gifts.

The whole thing is both deeply intriguing and somewhat worrying. The New York charm is the same tacky stuff as before, but the nameplates look nicer. Marginally, at least. They’re more personal gifts.

Peter sighs in frustration.

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this,” El says.

“You are?”

“I’m a little freaked out, but hon, this is just your type of puzzle. Anyways, who stalks a couple?”

“That is a bit odd, maybe one of the criminals you caught?” Neal says.

“Maybe,” Peter says. “You showed up on our couch the day after you were released.”

“Which seems to have worked in my favor,” Neal says.

“What could anyone possibly gain from sending us tacky souvenirs?” El says.

“Well, it doesn’t look like the intent is… malicious,” Neal says, looking between the souvenir mug Peter’s pulled out again and the picture of the keychains. He’s keeping a straight face at the suggestion, but barely.

“But these ones are nicer. Why?” Peter says, pulling the phone closer.

“Maybe they wanted to get you something you could actually use.”

“We can’t use them, they could be-” Peter flounders for several seconds trying to think of what they could be. “Trust me, I am going to figure this out,” he says instead. Things like this don’t just happen without a reason. After a few more minutes on the line with El, he ends the call and shoos Neal out of his office, towards a tray of mini-cupcakes one of the probies brought in.

A puzzle is the perfect thing right now. He’s not stupid enough to waste much time in his office, but it’s nice to have something else to think about besides Ringley and the cake Peter helped frost.

By five they’re all gathered in the conference room- the Ringley task force, White Collar division, people Neal’s cooperated with from other divisions over the years, a few odd probies, and their team. They’re grouped around the remainder of the mini cupcakes and little cups of apple juice. Someone’s made a banner with red, white, and blue lettering, reading “Freedom Party!”

“It’s like my own personal Fourth of July,” Neal says.

“You’ve earned it,” Peter says.

Diana raises a cup in the air. “To Neal Caffrey,” she says. “May he continue to make good decisions.”

“To Neal Caffrey!” everyone echoes, and drinks.

Neal props his leg up on a chair and hikes his pant leg up to his knee. His smile, his eyes, everything about him gleams with excitement. Peter gives him an indulgent smile of his own, electronic key cupped in his hand. He holds it up and people laugh and clap. He feels like he should say something, but can’t think of anything worth this moment, and they’ve got the rest of the night for that. He puts his hand on the thin black fabric of Neal’s sock, pushes the key into the anklet, and pulls it off.

More people clap. Someone yells wordless approval. Neal lets out a deep breath, drops his pant leg, and stands. He looks taller, more solid without the weight, or maybe that’s just Peter. Peter tucks the anklet away, into his pocket. He’ll leave it in his desk before he goes.

“All right, all right,” Neal says, and the noise stops. “I just wanted to say, it’s been a pleasure working with you all. I’m not going to miss the coffee,” people laugh, “but I’m going to miss everything else.”

“What _are_ you going to do?” Jones asks.

“For that kind of information, you’re going to have to come to the after-party,” Neal says. And then looks at Peter. “Which is cool, right? We’re having it now?”

“Yep, at our place, as soon as you’re ready to go,” Peter says.

Neal turns away, back towards the rest of the group, and starts saying his goodbyes to the people who won’t be dropping by later. Peter tries not to watch his back, the smooth way he talks, the laughter that breaks out wherever he goes, but it’s the only thing he can see.

“Going to be weird not having him around,” Diana says. Peter does his best not to jump.

“Yeah. It’s always weird when someone leaves. I have to get my own coffee, now, all the time,” Peter says.

“Hey, don’t look at me, those days are done,” Diana says.

“Yep,” Peter says, smiling.

Neal’s laughing at something one of the financial investigators said, and that instinct flares, the one in his chest that says Neal should be within arm’s reach. “Be right back, got to put this away,” Peter says, tapping his pocket. Diana nods, reaching for one of the cupcakes.

It’s quiet out in the office, abandoned. The lack of excitement is a relief. Suddenly, Peter’s not expected to smile. He sits in his office chair, the familiar rough fabric, and closes his eyes. Neal Caffrey. Electric, in a word. Blue-eyed, smooth as black silk, and slippery as a fish, still giving a roomful of FBI agents the run-around about where he’s going next. Well, Peter knows, but that’s because Peter found out.

He pulls the anklet out, and puts it in his bottom drawer, next to that “I <3 New York” mug and the air canister. He’s about to shut the drawer when he stops, something jolting loose in his brain.

_Sure, I’ll send you one from all my favorite places._

He pulls the drawer back open, eyes wide, and stares at the New York air, the New York mug, and the New York fortune cookie. Thinks of a bag with the Manhattan skyline, at El’s office. Even better, keychains, engraved with his name and El’s.

It almost makes sense. The stores are all within Neal’s radius. If Peter squints, the gifts could tell a story of their life with Neal. He wants it to make sense. Except-

Neal’s going to Europe. He has tickets for a flight tomorrow, Peter’s seen them, and he’s been talking with Mozzie about all the places they’re going to go before they settle down, museums and monuments, the sites of a few famous heists.

 _Oh, I could spend months in Madrid alone,_ he’d said, just the other day.

This is all just wishful thinking. Neal’s just being mysterious about his plans for fun, because that’s what Neal does. Peter shuts the drawer, grinds his palms into his eyes, and tells himself to get a grip. El’s words come back to him. _He’s so happy._

He thinks about that, about how Neal looked standing tall in his suave suit, making speeches, and that warmth radiates through his chest again, the one he usually gets when Neal bumps shoulders with him walking to the office. Or nudges him and points out a suspect. Peter squares his shoulders.

By the time he steps back into the conference room, Peter’s smiling for real. The gathering’s just about broken up anyways. Jones and Diana are already gone, probably headed to his house. Neal turns just enough to see Peter when he walks in, and tilts his head. Peter walks over to where he’s talking to the head of security.

“I was just telling Alan about that time we broke into the vault through the air vents,” Neal says.

“It’s true, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but they’re actually a threat,” Peter says.

Alan smiles uneasily, rubbing at his jaw. “That’s good, I’ll look into that. Excuse me, I’ve got to go pick up my daughter from karate before the send-off.”

He walks off pretty quickly.

“Turning us into a fortress before you go?” Peter says, turning towards Neal, eyebrow raised.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me before now. Just imagine the headlines if someone ever broke in here.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Peter says, pursing his lips.

Neal tilts his head again, looking up at Peter through his lashes. “Why would I need to break into someplace I worked?”

“If anything goes missing, I’m calling you.”

“And I’ll be happy to lend my expertise.”

Peter smiles at him, long and fond, and the moment stretches.

“Okay, well, I’m ready to head over,” Neal says, breaking his gaze to survey the room. There are only two other people still there, a secretary and someone from the taskforce sneaking what’s probably not his first or second cupcake, going by the frosting smeared on his cheek and tie. Neal taps the conference room table, once, and walks out into the hallway. He leans both hands on the railing and surveys the bullpen for a moment, then strolls out like it’s any day he's leaving the office, except for a half-second pause at his empty desk, the briefest stutter of movement.

Peter feels better once it’s just them, in his car. Neal chatters about how he convinced the evidence clerk to drop by after picking up her daughter from the nanny, and Peter doesn’t ask why he happens to know the evidence clerk so well, just flicks on his turn signal. Neal starts fiddling with the radio and Peter slaps his hand away.

“Some things don’t change, huh?”

“My car, my rules.”

 

They can hear the music as they near the house, soft jazz spilling out onto the lawn.

“June brought her record player,” Neal says, and Peter is going to miss that look, soft delight curving Neal’s lips, but he’s damn proud he and El helped put it there.

“She insisted, once El asked her what albums you liked.”

“I’ll be sure to thank El too, then,” Neal says.

“You better,” Peter says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Just wait until you see the cakes she made.”

“Peter,” Neal says, and puts a hand on his arm. Peter stops, nerves singing at the contact. He looks over into blue eyes that are dead-serious.

“Thank you, too,” Neal says.

“I only helped with the frosting,” Peter says.

“You’ve done a lot more than that.”

Neal’s hand is still on his arm, and it still feels right. Another car drives by outside, pulling onto the grass at the side of the road.

“You got yourself here, Neal,” Peter says, because that’s really, really important.  

“Yeah. And you helped.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that. Wonders where the air went. Should’ve brought one of those canisters. He smiles. Apparently that’s all Neal’s looking for, because he slaps him one more time on the shoulder and lets go, stepping out of the car. Peter takes a deep, deep breath, and follows.

 

An hour later, everyone’s buzzed from the punch and recovering from an intense round of musical chairs. Peter congratulates Diana on her hip-checking prowess, eyes Neal where he’s smirking at Jones, and goes to find El. She’s talking to June in the corner, by the wilting hydrangeas. Peter grabs a deviled egg from the buffet table and joins them. Of course, June sees the egg, sees the look in his eyes, and graciously leaves them alone. 

“You were right,” he says, putting an arm around her waist, admiring the grass stain on her bottom of her yellow dress from where she lost the battle for her seat to a probie from Organized Crime. “We needed this.”

“Yeah,” she says. "You should've seen the look on your face when you got dumped out of that chair."

“Mr. and Mrs. Suit,” Mozzie says, appearing near the drinks table. He slips one of the bottles of wine out from an ice bucket, examining the label.

“You’re late,” El says.

“A gentleman is never late, nor early, he arrives exactly when he means to.” Mozzie looks up from scrutinizing the bottle. And meets El’s gaze. “Some last-minute arrangements needed to be made,” he explains, ducking his head.

“For your trip, of course.” El goes from unimpressed to sympathetic in a heartbeat. “I’ve been dealing with last-minute disasters all day myself, so have at that.”

“Will do,” Mozzie says, and starts pouring. “And any for you?”

“No thanks, Mozzie. I need to go find some candles,” she says, slipping out of Peter’s grasp. “Almost time for cake.”

“Oh, you need some help with that?” Mozzie says. “I think I saw a few in your junk drawer.”

Peter gives him a look.

“Well there you go, you’ve already helped,” El says. “That’ll be the next place I check.”

“You don’t need me to-” Peter says.

“Have fun,” El says. Admonishes, rather. She walks off, pausing to say hi to June’s granddaughter.

“Your wife’s taste in wine is much better than yours,” Mozzie muses, swirling his glass and taking another sip.

“I’ve never even bought you wine,” Peter says. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Neal’s casa es mi casa,” Mozzie says.

Sometimes, Peter finds, it’s easier to ignore Mozzie’s non sequiturs. He clears his throat. He has to ask.

“Everything’s ready to go, then? For Europe?”

“Neal told you? Yeah, we’re well-prepared.”

“Well, then. I wish you two well there,” he says, the awkward words that have been sticking in his throat all night, the ones he should be saying to Neal. He crosses his arms to cover the sudden ache in his chest. “I can’t believe I’m asking you, but try to keep him out of trouble? And if anything happens, you give me a call.”

“I resent your supposition that we can’t fend for ourselves. We survived years without your watchdogs peering over our shoulders.” Mozzie holds up a hand. “However, a wise man uses the resources at his disposal. If, in the month and a half we are unaccounted for, Neal causes an international incident, I will contact you.”

“A month and a half?” Peter says, mind racing. He takes a step sideways, so he's looking straight at Mozzie, squaring off. Mozzie doesn’t seem to notice that Peter’s in his space, just swills his wine some more and adjusts his glasses up his nose.

“I pushed for longer, but Neal was adamant he be back before October 15th. I might stay a little longer in Madrid myself, they have excellent selections on Spanish philosophers.”

Peter’s frozen, torn between the ruthless suppression of hope he’s been practicing all night and Mozzie’s confession. Also, a familiar impulse to strangle Neal.

“Hey, hon? You know where you put the lighter after that fiasco with the grill the other day?” El says, pacing across the lawn.

Peter looks over at her and makes a wordless, baffled noise.

“Hon?” she says, cocking her head, looking between him and Mozzie.

Mozzie’s peering at him like he’s a few apples short of a barrel. Mozzie. Who likes to tell Peter about alien mind control chemicals and secret government cover-ups of acne sources.

The incongruity snaps him out of it.

“Mozzie here was just telling me about the vacation he and Neal are going on,” Peter says, carefully, “Apparently, Neal insisted on being back in time for your birthday.”  

El’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, um- that’s great,” she says, a helpless smile spreading across her face, gaze locked with Peter. Slowly, Peter finds himself smiling back, fingers tingling, mind alight with possibilities.

Mozzie looks between the two of them and sighs.

“I see my discouragements were pointless,” he says, but doesn’t look unhappy about it.

“You’ll have to tell me all about your trip when you get back,” El says. “You are coming back, to New York?”

“Technically, yes,” Mozzie says, putting the wineglass down on the buffet table.

“Wonderful. Now excuse us, but we’ve got to go find that lighter.”

El wraps an arm around Peter’s and all but drags him off to the porch.

“Peter,” she says, and now she looks as baffled as he was.

“He’s coming back,” Peter says, looking into her eyes, something humming beneath his skin. “For your birthday.”

“Why didn’t he tell us he’d changed his mind?” she says, searching the crowd, like him. There, Neal’s over by the fire pit, gesturing at Diana, who’s sitting on a bench and sipping a beer, smirking.

“I’ve got a hunch. I’ll talk to him,” Peter says.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” He needs to be sure he’s right about the souvenirs, before he gets El’s hopes up. His own are sharp shards, ready to cut. “Come join us soon, though.”

“All right,” she says, and leads the way to the fire pit.

Neal’s cheeks are flushed from the heat. The wine too, judging from the looks of his movements, expansive and easy. He doesn’t even look over when they approach. El holds her hands out to the flames.

“…and I’m stuck in the cupboard, and Olivier’s goons are outside. Diana’s just around the corner. So I start rattling the shelves, they come closer to investigate. I hear a couple thuds and open the door. They’re in a heap, Diana’s got a knee planted on each of their backs, and she’s stripping their guns. Then all we had to do was-”

“This story goes on for another ten minutes, at least,” Peter mutters. “Neal, can we borrow you for a minute? I’m sure Diana can finish the rest.”

Neal stops mid-gesture and winks. “Sorry guys, everyone wants a word,” he says, and sidles over. El lingers by the fire, prompting Diana to continue.

“Follow me,” Peter says, and leads Neal around the side of the house for privacy. Neal looks at him, eyebrows raised, but falls into step. When they’re safe behind an alcove, Peter stops. Now that they’re out of sight, he’s fighting a resurgence of the urge to strangle Neal.

“I didn’t do anything?” Neal says, reading him.

“Yes you did,” Peter says.

“Oh?” Neal leans against the side of the house.

“You’ve been sending us souvenirs. From New York,” Peter says.

“Interesting theory,” Neal says, eyes sparkling, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Care to back it up?”

“There’s plenty of reasons, but what clinched it was Mozzie saying your trip to Europe was a vacation. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Yeah well, I tried the direct route, but you just kept telling me to send you something, so I sent you something.”

Neal’s pouting, hat tipped low on his head, looking up at Peter like an accusation, which is rich given that Neal’s the one who got them into this mess.

“Letting El and I assume that you were leaving forever for some villa in Spain.”

“Exactly. You assumed that I would leave you guys forever and not even send a postcard?” Neal says. “Kind of makes a guy wonder.”

“Peter didn’t tell me that part,” El says, rounding the corner, apparently realizing he wasn’t going to signal when it was time to join the conversation and using her better judgment. She turns to him. “You insulted his inner romantic.”

Peter looks at her helplessly. She turns to Neal.

“I didn’t assume that. And you sent me a rhinestone-bedazzled bag instead of taking five seconds to explain.”

Neal looks slightly sheepish. Someone shouts, from the party.

“But you liked the keychain?”

El nods, hair swinging into her face. “Now I know who sent it, it’s pretty sweet. The one without a nameplate’s yours, if you want it.”

The New York keychain, from their set of three. Peter holds his breath for a second.

“I’ll take it with me,” Neal says, voice lined with promise.

“So- you’ll stay?” Peter says, and Neal closes off, face going smooth.

“I can’t promise anything,” he says, glancing between the two of them and pretty much directly contradicting himself. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure if things would be different once the anklet was off.”

This whole Europe mess is because Neal’s being overly cautious? Peter doesn’t know what to do with this highly unexpected piece of information. Maybe he should actually be proud? He's really not. He furrows his brow at the wood paneling on their house. Bits of paint are peeling off.  

“But you sent us the souvenirs anyway,” El says, with conviction.

“Couldn’t resist,” Neal says, tilting his head with a smile.

“And are things? Different?” Peter says, looking away from the wall.

“No,” Neal says, raking his gaze down Peter’s body. “Well, yes. Better.”

“And you still want us,” El says, stepping closer.

Neal stops slouching against the wall. “Yes. But I can’t-”

“Promise anything,” El says, and Neal wrinkles his nose. “You don’t know how you’ll feel tomorrow. That’s fine. But it’ll help your decision-making, if you know all the facts…”

“You know, you guys have a bad habit of trying to finish other people’s thoughts,” Neal says, but he takes his hands out of his pockets as El gets closer. She glances back at Peter, double-checking, and he nods assent, riveted, so she slips her arms around Neal’s neck, and kisses him once, chaste, before pulling back to adjust the angle. Neal moves with her, embracing her tight. 

The second kiss has more force, El melding herself against Neal, and Neal’s body opening up for her, pressing her close. Peter’s hot in the cooling evening, breathing hard at the image before him as El sighs and digs her hands into Neal’s hair, skimming over his ears and sending a shiver through him. The last of the sun catches her back, lighting her yellow dress. She looks like she’s doing that thing where she teases, draws him in and traces his tongue and lips with a light, maddening touch, makes him chase her. Neal keeps up effortlessly, hands tangling in her hair.

Eventually, Neal breaks away, breathing hard, but silent. He just stares at El for a minute, yellow dress glowing in the dark, like he’s seeing the sun for the first time, and then his gaze flicks to Peter’s, and he smiles. El follows his gaze, and smiles too, pulling away from Neal to grab Peter’s wrist and tug him closer. She presses a kiss to Peter’s neck, and then one to his ear, and whispers, sure.

“Go ahead.”

Peter kisses her briefly, smoothing a hand down her dress, and turns to Neal. Neal gives him a challenging smirk, his lips red and wet, hair a mess, but dark gray fedora still somehow perched on his head. He stretches against the wall, arching his back, and that answers the question of whether he was doing it on purpose all those other times.  

Peter smirks, letting his gaze linger. He takes two strides towards Neal and boxes him in against the wall. Neal tilts his head and Peter leans in, pausing when he’s about an inch away, gaze flicking from Neal’s red mouth to his blue eyes, pupils dilated. He waits two seconds, for Neal’s gaze to meet his, for the air to charge like all those other times he couldn’t do anything, and then Peter closes the gap.

He sucks Neal’s bottom lip between his teeth, tastes wine and Neal and smoke, with just a hint of El, and swallows his groan. It’s incredible to finally feel him, incredible how responsive Neal is, clever fingers smoothing over his back. Peter bumps noses with him as he shifts position, running a hand through soft brown hair, and takes the chance to nuzzle his cheek.

Neal makes a noise and tugs him closer. Peter resists, nipping at Neal’s lip and separating their chests. Neal surges forward immediately, hat finally tumbling off. Peter gentles the motion, swaying back with the momentum before leaning back in, inexorable, pressing Neal back against the wall and kissing him slow and sure. He could do this all night. He could do this for the rest of his life. Neal’s stomach muscles jump beneath his fingers as he skims a hand down Neal’s body, wishing for more than smooth fabric beneath his fingers. Neal’s hands dig into his shoulder blades, pulling Peter close again, and this time Peter lets him, lets him take whatever he wants.

They pull away at the same time, panting. Neal tries to pull him in again after a second, but Peter untangles his hands from Neal’s jacket and steps away.

“Not a promise,” Peter says, a hint of a smirk on his face. “Just something to look forward to. Whatever you decide.”

To Neal’s credit, he looks like he deeply regrets the whole Europe plan for a few seconds, staring at Peter like a dazed puppy. El steps forward and tugs at Neal’s jacket, straightening it. Peter smooths a hand over her yellow dress, where it’s gotten bunched up on the side. Neal, catching on, reaches for Peter, and those clever fingers fix his tie and the lines of his suit, lingering at his hip.

Neal still looks pretty ravaged, but he smooths his hair back and doesn’t seem to care, plucking his hat up from the ground and setting it on his head at a random angle that still manages to look jaunty. Well, Peter doesn’t really care either, it’s more like possessive joy. If anyone notices, they’ll probably assume Neal mixed it up with one of the probies, but they know better.

“So, I heard you made us two cakes?” Neal says, and El leads the way back into the house, recruiting Peter in the search for candles and sending Neal back out to his party. She also takes out the box of souvenirs. 

They trade secret glances for the rest of the night, light touches when they can spare them. Neal’s hand on El’s arm, Peter’s touch at Neal’s shoulder. Neal dances with El once, on the lawn. The cakes are a hit, and no one comments on Neal’s appearance, especially as it’s gotten darker, the yard lit only by the constant murky glow of the New York City sky, Chinese lanterns, and tiki torches, but they do laugh when Neal flicks some of the cake in Peter’s face. Neal's "helping" him clean up in the corner, mostly just smearing it more, when El appears. Neal backs away, eyeing the cake plate in her left hand, clearly expecting retaliation, but she takes Neal's hand with her right and presses the keychain into his palm. Neal holds it for a moment, rubbing at the New York engraving. His fingers slide carefully closed over the metal, and he slips it into his pocket. 

Neal stays behind to help clean up, but Mozzie stays too, helping remove the folding tables and silently guaranteeing Neal won’t be late for their flight. He’s waiting impatiently on the curb while Neal kisses both of them one last time in the shadows of the porch. Peter studies him, familiar against the night sky.

“Whatever you decide,” he says again, and this time, means it. He wants Neal happy, at whatever cost.

Neal nods.

“But don’t take too long,” El says, wrapping an arm around Peter.

“I’ll send you postcards,” Neal says, with a grin, and Peter glares. “Fine, have it your way.”

He leaves, and El and Peter sit on the porch and watch him go, huddled together in the night’s descending chill.

“He’ll be back,” El says.

“I know,” Peter says, though he knows nothing’s sure with Neal.

He presses a kiss to her neck, and they abandon their mugs on the porch. This feels right too, her body against his. This has always felt right.

 

Five weeks later, Peter sits at his desk and takes a sip from his “I <3 New York” mug. He grimaces at the stale, powdery taste, wishing Neal had sent some espresso beans too. This time around, El and Peter have received painted pottery from Madrid, two tiny watercolor paintings from Florence, and a glass wind chime from Greece. No postcards, though. Peter’s taking that as a good sign. He takes another sip of the technically-coffee, and his phone rings.

“Peter Burke, FBI,” he says.

“Peter!”

“Neal?” He puts the mug down, smiling reflexively.

“In hopes of you not freaking out at me this time, this is a courtesy call that you might see me soon.”

“A courtesy call.” He rubs a hand over his face, still smiling through the exasperation.

“Yep.”

As far as he can tell, Neal hasn’t actually told him anything so far, so it’s not much of a courtesy.

“Well, it’s good to hear from you, for whatever reason. What’ve you been up to?”

A car door slams, on Neal’s end. “Not much. Europe. Finally got rid of that pesky tan line. And you? Elizabeth?”

“Fine, we’re fine. El’s landed a big client, so she’s pretty frantic. We’ve missed having you around the office. Weirdly enough, no one else seems to have any useful criminal connections." He takes a breath. "They moved your desk back into storage.” The carpet’s still got dents from where the furniture pressed into it for four years.  

There’s a soft ding in the background, wherever he is.

“They did? That must look weird.”

“Looked weirder with it empty,” Peter says.

“All right. Well, I need to go,” he says, as there’s another ding. “But I really will see you soon.”

“I know,” Peter says, because he’s kept track of time without even meaning to. One week left.

Neal makes a noncommittal noise, implying otherwise. Peter frowns.  

“See you, Peter.”

“Bye, Neal.”

There’s a click, and Peter stares at his phone in bemusement. People start filtering back into the office from a mid-afternoon meeting, and he takes another sip of his coffee. He’ll figure it out when he’s finished the paperwork for the art recovery. It’s a Friday, there’s not much besides mortgage fraud going on, and he’d like to get out on time for once, so he can start finding a present for El.

Someone knocks at his office door, and he looks up, already gesturing them in.

It’s Neal.

“Some courtesy call. You gave me what, five minutes?” Peter says, heart in his throat

Neal looks good, tanned and relaxed in a soft-looking gray suit, his usual fedora perched on sun-lightened brown locks.

“Ten, actually.”

“It’s good to see you again,” Peter says, coming around his desk to clasp him in a hug. Neal looks even better within arm’s reach. He forces himself not to linger more than a couple seconds. “What are you doing here?”

“Applying for a job.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. 

“Are you now?”

“Well, Hughes is pretty sure he’s going to approve it.”

Peter laughs. He doesn't grab Neal, pinch himself, or do a minor victory dance, because his office has glass walls. His cell phone rings, and he pulls it out to silence it, but it’s El.

“Hey,” he says, voice radiating warmth.

“I just got a really accurate chocolate replica of the Empire State Building delivered to my desk!”

“All I got was a courtesy call,” Peter says. Neal gestures at him, wanting him to put the phone on speaker. Neal, in his office. Gesturing.

“A courtesy call?”

“I know. You can ask him about it yourself if you want,” he says, holding the phone out. Neal immediately taps the speaker button.

“Hi, Elizabeth,” he says.

“Neal! You are in so much trouble.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“Actually, it’s a surprisingly accurate replica. I can’t decide whether I should eat it or display it as a centerpiece.”

Neal preens. Peter quietly smirks. Neal came back, and he sent them a New York souvenir. Even the federal agent in him is sure.

“Just wait for your birthday present,” Neal says.

“Oh, I will.”

“Sorry I couldn’t stop by your place, I had a meeting at the FBI. Three PM sharp.”

“Already? I can see how this is going to be.”

“You finish up at work, El, we’ll be home by five at the latest,” Peter says.

“Fine, keep me updated.”

 

Peter drives home too fast, but it’s Neal’s fault for the soft look on his face when he sees Peter’s keychain, tapping at the little catcher’s mitt. Peter endures it somehow without kissing him, focusing on the dashboard and the too-long traffic lights. He pulls up to the house and Neal slips out of his seat immediately. He looks like he's going to vibrate out of his skin waiting for Peter to slam his car door shut and start up the steps. He rings the doorbell, the giddy grin transforming into a smooth smile when El pulls the door open.

“Neal,” she says, eyes drinking him in, and pulls him into a hug. “Stay for dinner,” she all but demands, arms still wrapped around his back, bunching the fabric of his suit.

They make it halfway through the lasagna before Neal puts his fork down. He looks like he might want to say something, but Peter, who let him go, who’s been waiting for hours to touch him again, kisses him first.

They mumble promises to each other. “You-” and “I need-” and “If you’d just, right there.” El steers them to the bedroom while simultaneously stroking Peter and kissing Neal. In their race to get clothes off, Neal’s shiny new FBI consultant badge thumps to the floor, but Neal doesn’t seem to mind.

The next morning, Peter takes a bite of the omelette Neal whipped up on his Madrid pottery plates, squeezed between them at their porch table. There’s a hickey on Neal’s neck, peeking out above his shirt collar, and El’s hair is mussed. They lean over the table towards each other, taking sips of hot cocoa and discussing the details of their new relationship. Relationship. Peter feels like his heart is bursting out of his chest, like he could fly. Neal catches him staring into space and nudges him. El giggles.

“Can you blame him?” she says.

Peter scowls, taking in his two favorite people in the world, up in arms against him. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are the second most beautiful thing in the world, especially critical ones.
> 
> On tumblr, also as minici. Come talk about characters.


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